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THE HOUSE WHERE I WAS BORN 



The House Where I Was Born 

AND OTHER POEMS 



BY 

FRED PEARCE MOONE 

Author of "A POLITICAL ROMANCE" and Other Sketche 



Columbus, Ohio: 

The Stoneman Press 

1912 



oC3 , 



COPTKIGHTED BY 

F K E D P. M O O N R 
1912 



Cf.A330549 



: TO MY OLD FRIEND AND THE COMPANION OF MY BOYHOOD DAYS. 

I THE LATE 

i PROFESSOR ALLEN LATHAM, 

j IN HAPPY REMEMBRANCE OF SOME OF THE BRIGHTEST 

j MOMENTS OF MY LIFE. THIS LHTLE VOLUME 

I IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED 

BY ITS AUTHOR 



PREFACE 

A small voliinic oi poems and sketches which I published 
some time ago was accorded a cordial welcome by my 
friends. The perhaps all too complimentary reception of 
that former work has prompted me to offer the present 
collection, in the fond hope that it may prove as acceptable 
to the reading public. 

In tendering this little booklet to possible readers I do 
not labor under the delusion that I am adding aught of 
abiding- or material excellence or value to the literature of 
the present day. The world is full of books and few if any 
but are the work of far abler writei"^ than I may aspire to 
be, but 

I hold it meet and deem it right. 

That 1 should test my powers to sing, 

To give my fancy rein in flight, 
E'en tho it speed on halting wing. 

What if my notes be harsh and rude, 

Lacking in strength and melody 
Intruding on your solitude 

A tiresome tuneless threnody. 

But who would bid the robin cease. 
Because he rivaled not the lark? 

Or tell the blue bird hold his peace 
'Fore sweeter songs of wood or park? 

The mocking bird hath wonderous song. 

The linnet's too is full of joy, 
The red bird's note is loud and strong, 

Who would the humbler birds destroy? 

7 



I may not with the robin rank, 

Nor with the blue bird hold a place, 

Then note the wren on yonder bank 
Class me wath him, if, by your grace. 

You may accord such place to me; 

Or with the humble sparrow brown, 
The chippy or the small pee-wee. 

If 'tis your pleasure, write me down. 

I do not vainly vaunt my verse, 
Nor care I much for human praise, 

I'd unobtrusive wend my course, 
And placidly would end my days. 

But still I claim the right to sing; 

And, if my song's not to your mind. 
Then tear the verses that I bring. 

And cast their fragments to the wind. 

Revile who will my humble song 

If I may end my days in peace; 
The fleeting years cannot be long 

E're singer and the song shall cease. 

I feel assured that, if any of my poems are of intrinsic 
value, they will live. If on the other hand they have no 
merit they will die the death deserved. I am however con- 
scious of the fact that it is nobler to have made the effort, 
even tho I should fail therein, than to stifle the impulse 
within and to make no effort at all. I sometimes wonder 
that I have ever tried to write. At no time have my op- 
portunities been very great, as I have had very little leisure 



at my command. In addition to this, my schooling in boy- 
hood days was defective and intermittent. 

My father's business was such that he often needed my 
assistance in his labors and my education was a secondary 
consideration when he needed my help. I do not say this 
complainingly since I know that he would have ordered it 
otherwise had it been in his power to have done so. But 
he had the care of a family on his hands and his earnings 
were too small to enable him to employ regular help and 
so in cases of emergency I had to stay at home and render 
him help. This I say in mitigation of any breach of rec- 
ognized accuracy in English that my little book may con- 
tain. If in any of my verses I have appropriated an idea 
or a line from the writings of any other author, it has been 
done without intention. I am free to confess that, in some 
instances, after I had written a line or expressed a senti- 
ment there would seem a haunting familiarity of sound or 
of sense, altho I could not recall ever having seen or heard 
it before. In former publications of mine I let humor be 
the controlling influence. If in so doing I have caused a 
smile to spread over a face otherwise clouded with care or 
sorrow, I shall feel amply repaid for my personal effort. 
My principal motive in publishing the present volume is 
this : I am well aware that in a few years at the most my 
race on earth shall have been run and, as fame and fortune 
and glory have all missed me, I desire to leave behind 
some little reminder of the fact that I too have passed this 
way. I have never been quite satisfied with my lot in life, 
in that I have never been able to rise above dependency 
upon my daily labors and the routine drudgery necessary 
to provide for the v/ants of life and "to keep the pot a boil- 
ing." Nor have I ever been able to secure that leisure 
which is coveted by one of literary taste and ambition. 
Not that I have ever wished for wealth for wealth's sake 



alone, but for the good it might enable me to do, and I 
would rather be the author of a Gray's Elegy or Poe's 
Raven than a possessor of the wealth of a Vanderbilt or a 
Rockefeller. 

In conclusion, permit me to say to those of my critics 
who may urge that my flights of fancy have been neither 
very lofty nor very long sustained, that I plead guilty to 
the charge. Yet I would remind them that it is not given 
to every mortal to enter into the temple of the Muses and 
there join in the songs of the inspired. Such a felicity 
may never be mine, but I feel that I have at least wandered 
near the sacred edifice and have caught some faint echo of 
the sounds of divine concord from within. 

THE AUTHOR. 



&^^ 



10 




PORTRAIT OF AUTHOR 



12 



THE HOUSE WHERE I WAS BORN 

A humble cot in a quaint old town, 

Where the chalk hills slope to the distant sea, 
On a modest street and of slight renown, 

Stands the house that first did shelter me, 
No lofty turrets mounting high. 

Or gables reaching to meet the morn, 
No pointed towers reared to the sky, 

Doth mark the place where I was born, 
But a humble cot on a quiet street, 

When the skies are gray and the clouds hang low 
And the patter of happy children's feet 

Are the grandest sounds that the place doth know 
Or else perchance on his infrequent trip. 
The resounding crack of the carter's whip. 

A humble cot on a quiet street 

In a quaint old town not far from the sea, 
Where the clouds hang low and the skies are gray, 

Stands the earliest home of my infancy. 
And a mother's love and a mother's care 

Hath made it dear and hath hallowed the spot 
With memories happy and bright and fair. 

And now far away from that lowly cot, 
I think with joy on the dear old place. 

That first in my infancy sheltered me. 
And visions recur of my mother's face 

As she sang to me there a soft lullaby. 
And I said as I bade it adieu one morn 
'God bless the old house where I was born." 



13 



HIS FIRST BATH. 

A short time ago a Russian Jew was found prowling 
about the Panhandle yards. His hair was long and un- 
kempt, and his beard was a tangled mass, and he had a 
wild and anarchistic look. So they arrested him on sus- 
picion and sent him down to the city prison and — But the 
verses tell the rest: 

He'd been loitering around the station all the day 

And at night they found him prowling in the yard, 

So they sent him to the station-house without del 
And left him with the turnkey, under guard. 



lav 



But before the latter placed him in a cell, 

Said he unto his fellows (with a laugh) : 
"This duffer here is dirtier than hell. 

And I think we'd better treat him to a bath." 

So they took him to a room where was a tub, 
And bade him doff his very dirty, dirty duds 

And give himself a good and generous scrub, 

And they would very kindly furnish him the suds. 

Then the fellow raised a protest loud and strong; 

Saying : "Vot ! go into dot vater. Oh mine f rient, 
De dings dot you propose iss very w^rong. 

I'll catch a colt unt dot mine life vill ent." 

They heeded not his protest, but plunged him in the tub. 

Regardless of his struggles and his cries. 
They soaped him and they lathered him with many a vig- 
orous rub. 

And I fear they got some lather in his eyes. 



14 



At last their task was ended. They'd reached down to the 
skin 
Through all the different stratas of the dirt. 
Then they gave him clean apparel. ('Twas very light and 
thin) 
From the vest, socks and trousers to the shirt. 

Now, one who'd helped to rub him in the bath 
Asked this very natural question of him then, 

''When before in all your life did you ever take a bath? 
Now upon your word and honor, tell me when? 

Then he answered : "Frient belief me 'tis de trute I tells 
you now, 

Or if you choose ust€ go unt awask mine vife. 
So help me My Good Gracious, I honestly do vow 

Dot / ncffer vas arrested before in all mine life. 



TO DANIEL McAllister, esq. 

ON READING A POEM WRITTEN BY HIM. 

Your verses I've read with a thrill of delight, 
Of the heart, the hope, the will, and the man. 

He was troubled with doubt as to which course was right, 
To travel alone the rest of life's span ; 

Or to yield himself up to the promptings of lieart, 

And make of her life of his own life a part ; 

And cheer himself thus with a joyous young wife — 
These questions sore puzzled the man. 

But the man's will was firm and it guided him right 
While combating the promptings of heart, 

And he said, "Tho' she's as fair as the new morning light, 
And her lips like the roses, she can ne'er be a part 

15 



Of the life that is left to me now, 
For I will be loyal, be true and be brave — 
Be loyal to her that sleeps in the grave — 
Thus reasoned aright this old man. 

The rest of life's journey I wnll travel alone. 

And the way, I am sure, can't be long. 
And so as I journey and pass each milestone 

I will cheer myself thus with a song, 
A song of the past, when young hearts were light, 

And the skies were a heavenly blue. 
When the whole of the earth seemed transcendently bright, 

And young hearts beat loyal and true. 

A song of past days, full of rapturous praise 

Of the dear ones I met in life's morning, 
Who have vanished away from my pathway today, 

Aye ! Beyond all hope of returning. 
Some day in the future, ere long, let me hope. 

When I have passed over the river, 
My loved ones to meet and fondly to greet. 

Be united forever and ever." 



PROGRAM FOR THE NEXT MEETING OF 
LOCAL No. 12 OF THE R. C. & P. A. 

Our next meeting will be opened with due and clerkly care,. 

The brothers standing 'round the room will sit down any- 
where, 

Our business we will expedite and get the matter over, 

And then we'll have a jolly time like young pigs loose in 
clover. 

We'll surely make these rafters ring with joyous shout and 
revel, 

16 



And bid each brother laugh and sing, dull care go to the 
devil. 

Our candidates we'll obligate upon the carpet kneeling, 
And then proceed to elevate and hoist them to the ceiling. 
The rocky road to Dublin we'll give them on a car. 
Then roll them in a barrel, their nerves we'll surely jar. 
We'll take them all around the room by slow and steady 

jerks. 
The hoodwinks we at last remove and dub them "Union 

Clerks." 

When this part of the programme is past and all is done, 

We'll gather up the debris and have a little fun. 

First Sister Doust will speak a piece in measures smooth 

and metric, 
And then will come a sparring match 'twixt Brothers Houck 

and Detrick. 
Sister Smith will waltz around the room and Brother Maas 

will sing 
And Chauncey Brown and Brother Downs will dance the 

Highland fling. 

Brother Kuntz will sing a German song, "Mein Lieber Got 

in Himmel," 
The next will be a fancy stunt by Brother Georgie Dimel. 
Brother Tomlinson and Brother Beck on tight ropes they 

will dance. 
Brother Smith will show some fancy steps, imported late 

from France. 
Brother Mills will read a lecture on wedded bliss and joys, 
Full well he knows his subject with his numerous girls and 

boys. 



17 



And then we'll bring the tables out and have a little lunch 
With lager beer and Sweitzer case we'll be a merry bunch 
Thus merrily we'll pass the hours until 'tis time to vanish. 
With merry jest and joyous quip, all care we'll surely 

banish. 
So tell it 'round to brothers all, and sisters, too, with care, 
And then at our next meeting we'll have no vacant chair. 

If this programme is adopted and its measures carried out, 
This hall to overflowing can be fllled I have no doubt. 
If each brother and each sister will only do their part. 
And each one tell his neighbor and work with hand and 

heart, 
And brush away inertia like the sweeping of a broom. 
And then at our next meeting we won't have standing room. 



IN THE WOODS AT GRAND VIEW. 

I love to steal from the haunts of men, 

To the shady woods and the leafy hollows. 

To list to the drone of the honey bees. 

And to watch the flight of the swift-winged swallows 

As over the river's marge they skim. 

Hither and thither and back again. 

Where the wind blows free, there, there would I be 
With heaven's blue canopy spreading o'er me. 
And the robin's chirp I love to hear. 

And the noisy jay makes music, too. 
And the bluebird's song sounds sweet and clear, 

While the woodpecker beats him a wild tat-too 
As he drums on the trunk of a fallen tree. 

In quest of the food that nature provides. 
No thought of the morrow or care hath he, 

18 



Contented at last he has captured his prize, 
Then off to his mate on that oak wings his way 

And together they dine on the worm he hath found ; 
There they sit for a while and then fly away 

And leave me in silence to ponder alone. 

Now a gay gaudy butterfly around me flits, 
As he hovers at ease o'er bush and o'er bower. 

And now at last on a blossom he sits, 

And regales him with nectar from out the wild flower. 

Oh, the meadow-lark, chippie and little pee-wee — 

They each one and all have music for me, 

While the winds through the trees an accompaniment play 

To the song of the robin and the chattering jay. 

The light through the trees comes shimmering down 

And with shadows fantastic decks the grass where I lie, 
And I catch a glimpse of the distant town. 

And close by this pool is a gay dragon fly. 
How bright, how gaudy and lustrous his wings ! 

And his brilliant eyes are like beads on his head 
As, poised in mid-air, he darts and he swings — 

The glint of the sunshine on him doth shed, 
A radiance that naught can surpass, I ween, — 

There's a tinge of purple, a royal blue 
A burnished gold and a touch of green. 

Oh, beauteous insect of gorgeous hue, 
I would I could fly through the air like you ! 
Or, if I like the birds might carol and sing, 
I'd fly far away upon pinioned wing 
To some lone tree or some mountain high 
Whose towering peak seems to pierce the blue sky, 
And there all alone in the distance dim, 

19 



I'd pour forth my soul in a song to Him, 

The Maker of all, whose fatherly care 

Extends through the universe everywhere. 

A song of praise to my Maker, then I, 

With the last dying note would contentedly die. 



I pause and the sound of the distant bell 

Comes faint on the breeze as it floats from the town. 
Telling me plainly as aught can e'er tell 

That it's time for a loiterer like me to be gone. 
So I mount my wheel and silently steal 
Awav from the woods of Grand View. 



THE SEARCH FOR AN HONEST MAN, 

OR THE ANIMADVERSIONS OF OLD JIM HAWLEY. 

An honest man, I've often heard folks say, 

Is far the noblest work of our creator, God ; 
The truth of this, I'm sure I can't gainsay, 

Nor would I, gentle reader, if I could. 
But then I've also heard — I hope I state it fair — 

I'm sure I could state wrong without a qualm, 
That every honest man has got a lock of hair 

Growing in the very middle of his horny palm. 

I've wandered far in many distant lands. 

And many times I've crossed the briny sea, 
I've often looked in men's extended hands. 

But always failed that lock of hair to see. 
The thought of this hath often made me sad. 

My flesh creep and my epidermis feel quite "crawly," 
And musing thus unto myself I said, "Egad ! 

I'll go consult my friend and neighbor. Old Jim Hawley." 

30 



Now Jim is one of that rough and ready kind, 

Who claim that white is white and black is black 
Nor does he hestitate to speak out his mind, 

And fraud, deceit and falsehood clear the track 
Before Jim's truthful glance and his investigation. 

And so, to neighbor Jim I wend my way. 
And state the case to him with due deliberation. 

Then I, in anxious silence, wait to hear him say 
His quaint opinions, and as best I can 

Transmit them unto you, dear readers, all. 
I can't do justice unto this fair man, 

Forgive me, therefore, where I chance to fall. 
And so I state the case to stout old Jim, 

Of how Td looked full oft for honest men. 
But found them not, and now I'd come to him 

That I mie^ht know 'em if I'd chance to meet 'em. 



'&' 



JIM'S ANSWER. 

"The quality you seek," said he, ''is by comparison only, 
A superlatively honest man you'll never, never find ; 

And if you found him. Gad ! he'd feel quite lonely, 
For men like company of their sort and kind. 

So if by chance you found one, then, God save us. 

The man, my friend, would prove a rara avis. 

Here's Lawyer Jones, who counts himself an honest man. 

Compared with neighbor Smith, he's very honest, quite. 
He would not rob a hen roost, for that is not his plan, 

But he would befog a jury and claim that he was right 
If, by defeat of justice, his client he could save 
TJio he knew the man ivas guilty and of knaves the veriest 
knave. 



21 



'Tis a trick of criminal lawyers, as you oft have seen, no 
doubt ; 
They would whitewash the criminal, paint the prosecutor 
black. 
With arguments they'd twist and turn the facts about, 

Till in solid prison walls for escape they've forced a crack. 
There's no one can deny it, zvhcn money is in sight, 
They will do their level damndest to paint the Devil zvhite. 

There's the preacher, full of cant, in a faultless suit of black, 

How he smiles upon the layman if he has plenty of hard 

cash; 

He wall smirk and grasp his hand or pat him on the back, 

But the poor and needy sinner? He has little use for 

trash. 

He will preach such oily sermons, chiding sin in general 

ways. 
But the pet sin of the rich sinner he heeds not, for it pays 
To be blind to the faults of a parishioner that's rich, 
For from him he gets the income that sustains him in 
style ; 
But the sins of the poor devil that labors in the ditch. 
They are "just simply awful and the man himself is 
vile !" 
Twixt the lawyer and the parson, to choose there's not one 

speck. 
They both are after boodle and they're trotting neck and 
neck. 

With the merchant and the doctor it is very much the same — 
They are seeking after money, trying hard to grasp the 
dollar. 

The politicians, too, they all play the self same game, 
Promise much before election, and loudly they w^ill holler 



How they'd love to serve the people, be public servants 
quite; 
But when they are elected and in office they're installed 
Then our servants are our masters and migJit becomes the 
right. 
Ay, our servants are our masters, the people are en- 
thralled, 
Tho' loud before election, they're as mute as any clam, 
For their pre-election promises they do not care one damn! 

And so it is through all the list, from the greatest to the 
least, 

From the king upon, a throne to the peasant in a hut, 
From the cardinal or bishop to the very poorest priest, 

Each man or woman has a price and it is only but 
A question what that price shall be. With some the price is 
great. 

With others, very little will serve to buy the man ; 
With some it is a kingdom, with others just a treat, 

But each and every mortal is built upon this plan. 
It's as true as now I tell it, tho' perhaps it may sound queer, 
Fve known a voter sell himself for a single glass of beer. 

There are the ladies, may God bless them, I sincerely love 
the sex, 
And I would not hurt their feelings or their character 
traduce, 
Nor say one thing about them their tender hearts to vex, 
But would hide all their shortcomings, nor the evidence 
produce, 
Of their occasional little lapses from the straight and nar- 
row path ; 
Their failings I would cover up, their virtues Td extol, 

23 



Protect them from the day of wrath — I would upon my 
soul. 

Now I've read you quite a lecture and think I'll call a halt. 
I've tried to make my meaning plain, no doubt you under- 
stand, 
But if you fail to grasp it quite, why then is it my fault? 
Go search the country over, throughout the whole broad 
land, 
From east to west, from north to south ; deny it those who 

can. 
You'll never, never, never find a strietly honest man. 



THE SUMMER'S DEPARTED. 

The summer's departed. All her glories have fled. 
Her roses have withered. Her pansies are dead. 
The leaves of the trees, they are withered and brown, 
And the winds of the autumn doth cover the ground 
With the sere yellow leaves once so verdantly green. 
Brown are the meadows where the daisys have been. 
Aye, the summer is ended. All her glories have fled. 
The flowers, they have vanished. They are withered and 
dead. 

The gaudy nasturtions that bloomed by the wall. 

The scarlet geranium and the goldenrod, tall, 

Are slain by the frost king, whose breath meaneth death. 

For the sweet tender flowers they are slain by his breath. 

The harvest is gathered and threshed is the grain ; 

Soon will the cold winter be with us again. 

Aye, the summer is ended. All her glories have fled. 

The flowers have all vanished. They are withered and dead. 

24 



Soon the winds of winter, so bleak and so chill, 

Shall blow through the valley and over the hill; 

And the nook where the violets did so modestly blow 

Shall be hidden from view by a mantle of snow. 

On the cold frozen earth not a vestige of green 

Where the roses once bloomed and the daisies have been. 

Aye, the summer is ended. All her glories have fled. 

The flowers have all vanished. They are withered and dead. 

Oh Winter! Cold Winter! I dread thy harsh reign, 

With thy fierce biting winds, thy sleet and thy rain. 

For the sough of thy winds full of sadness and dole 

Remindeth me oft of the wail of a soul 

That is doomed to perdition for some mortal wrong. 

Then haste thee, oh Winter, nor tarry thee long. 

But may sweet smiling Spring, with her wild flowers a store 

And her roses and daisies, soon be with us once more. 

CUPID AND THE MAIDEN. 

A SONG. 

Dan Cupid, the god of love, one day 

Laid siege to a maiden's heart. 
But the maid was coy, she slighted the boy 

And she ruthlessly bade him depart. 
''Oh, begone," she said. 'T am too young to wed. 

And I pray. Sir, that you do not tarry ; 
For, if ever I rue, I will send for you. 

Some day in the future I'll marry, I'll marry. 

Some day in the future I'll marry; 
For, if ever I rue, I will send for you — 

Some day in the future I'll marry." 

Then Cupid he gathered his arrows and bow 
And far from her presence he flew. 

25 



'You will wish some day you had bade me stay," 

He laughed, for the boy god knew 
That her time would come, and that surely some 

Gay gallant her heart would be winning — 
'And when it shall be that you send for me, 

Dan Cupid will then have his inning, his inning, 

Dan Cupid wnll then have his inning; 
And when it shall be that you send for me, 

Dan Cupid will then have his inning." 

The years flew away, as ever they will, 

And with them the maiden's youth ; 
And as she grew old her lovers grew cold, 

Tis the way of the world, forsooth. 
So she said in dismay, 'T w^ill send straightway 

For Cupid to banish my sorrow." 
At the sound of his name the boy god came. 

And her heart he transfixed with an arrow, an arrow, 

And her heart he transfixed with an arrow. 
At the sound of his name the boy god came. 

And her heart he transfixed with an arrow. 

With an arrow blunt* her lover he smote. 

And he laughed in glee at his chaffing, 
"You have had your day and 'tis mine to pay 

Old scores," he said to her, laughing. 
Said she, "Sir, I rue and I send for you; 

With me then, oh Love, do thou tarry." 
But Cupid replied, ''You're too old for a bride, 

You have grown too old for to marry, to marry, 

You have grown too old for to mari-y !" 
But Cupid replied, "You're too old for a bride ; 

You have grown too old for to marry !" 



*A blunt arrow is supposed to he repellant. 

26 



LINES WRITTEN IN A CHILD'S ALBUM. 

Sweet little lassie with eyes of blue 

What shall I write in these pages for you? 

May the skies in your journey of life be fair 
And your days as bright as your golden hair, 
And when clouds do gather, as gather they must, 
May your heart be brave and not lose its trust 
In the Father above, who cares for us all 
And is mindful of even a sparrow's fall. 

May your feet ever walk in the pathway true 

Of wisdom ; May she. Pet, ever guide you. 

Nor ever stray thou, Love, in folly's maze 

But keep steadfastly on till the end of thy days. 

That the blessings of heaven may alight on thy head 

Is the earnest prayer of your 

UNCLE FRED. 



AN ODE TO THE TURKEY. 

The fierce eagle, soaring aloft in the sky. 

Is the emblem of freedom, so the sages all tell us. 

But I know of another and, twixt you and I, 
When seated at table with jolly good fellows 

I say without fear, none dispute me least. 

That the turkey's the bird that best graces the feast. 

CHORUS, 

The brown roasted turkey, the sweet smelling turkey, 
When stuffed with good oysters, served with cranberry 
sauce, 
Oh who would forego it, the savory turkey? 
For of all table birds sure the turkey's the boss. 

27 



Then pass me a piece of the bird that I love, 

A drumstick, a wing or even a thigh. 
You may talk of the partridge, the quail, or the dove, 

Tis for brown roasted turkey that ever I sigh. 
It is fit for the statesman, the lawyer, or priest. 
For the turkey's the bird that best graces the feast. 

Then here's to the turkey, the grand stately thing. 

The prince of all fowls, I love it I own. 
It is fit for the lawyer, the statesman, or king; 

Egad, it is fit for a queen on her throne! 
May it ever continue our fair land to bless ! 
And the shadow of the turkey, may it never grow less. 

And when I've departed from this earthly sphere 

And to heaven I've ascended, should I reach that fair 
land, 
May I regale me on turkey, sweet bird ever dear. 

For I love roasted turkey and sure it is grand. 
There's none can surpass it, I think so at least. 
For the turkey's the bird that best graces the feast. 
Then give me a taste of the bird that I love, 

A slice of the dark meat and likewise the breast; 
A napkin, a clean plate, a knife and a fork — 

Then place them before me and I'll do the rest. 
For there's none can surpass it, we think so at least, 
Sure the turkey's the bird that best graces the feast. 



28 < 

i 

i 



TO MY WIFE. 

(while on a visit in GEORGIA.) 

Well, how do you like things in Georgia, 

The people, the coons and all that? 
The grub and the queer Southern cooking, 

And the dishes all reeking in fat? 

Are the girls there as sweet and as pretty 

As some in Ohio we know? 
Are the peaches as fine as they tell us? 

Are the cotton fields white as our snow? 

Are there gaitors and lizards in plenty 
And mocking birds perched on each tree? 

Would you rather live there with the darkies, 
Than here in Ohio with me? 

On your way did you see Lookout Mountain, 
Where the battle was fought 'bove the clouds? 

And was your sleep troubled with visions 
Of dead warriors, sans coffins, sans shrouds? 

How is Daisy? and how did the journey 

Affect you, My Dear, and Miss D.? 
When you write, pray, tell all about it, 

And every strange thing that you see. 

Since you left we've had stormy weather. 

And the wettest of very wet rain. 
Till the fields and the meadows were flooded. 

And ruined is much of the grain. 

Had I known that your going, My Sweetheart, 
Would bring rain and thus break up the drought, 

29 



I'd have sent you away some weeks sooner, 
Yes, away to the w^arm sunny south. 

Now don't take offense, dear old GirHe, 

At what I have written above. 
For you know that to you I am loyal. 

And my heart is o'erflowing with love. 

For the dearest and best of fair women 
That e're cared for a duft'er like me, 

For in fact Fd feel lost without you — 
Like a ship without rudder at sea. 

I am sitting here by the south window, 

But my thoughts they fly soutward to Jen, 

Over stream, over mountain and valley, 
Past forest, past river and glen. 

To a place in the south near Fort Valley, 
Where the sun shines cloudless and bright, 

For I know somewhere there 'mid the peach trees 
Reposes my sweetheart tonight. 

Have a good time, be joyous and happy, 

Dont' worry or fret for me, Jen, 
And when you return to Ohio 

I think we'll get married again. 



30 



TO MAGGIE. 

I strayed toda}^ by the river-side 

To a leafy spot where the wild flowers grew, 
And, as I gazed on the flowing tide, 

I thought of old England and Derby and you. 

Of the day that we went to Matlock Bath, 
Your Mother and Arthur and Jimmy and I, 

How we climbed High Tor to the Roman cave 
And fed the fish in the pool close by. 

Then we climbed again to the top of the hill 
And a blast I blew on a winkel shell, 

A whistle that sounded both loud and shrill 
And wakened the echos far down the dell. 

Till the folks, in the coach on the road below 
The spot where we stood on the high hill top. 

Gazed in wonder aloft as they heard me blow, 
And your Uncle Arthur had bade me stop. 

Said he, "they will think you are some green boy 
To be blowing thus on a perwink shell !" 

But so full was I of a gleesome joy 

That little I cared for his threat to tell. 

"The folks at home in the states," he said, 

"They will think you are daft if you will act so. 

You are old enough to be more staid. 
So cease your whistling and let it go." 

The winkel shell — I have got it still 

And oftentimes, when I'm tired and blue, 

I blow a blast as of yore on the hill 

To remind me of England and Derby and you. 
31 



JAKEY STROUSE. 

In New York's crowded city, in a great big red brick house, 
Lives a little Hebrew laddie, and they call him Chakey 

Strouse. 
With his father and his mother, and their children, ten or 

so. 
They occupy the upper floors — Old Strouse sells clothes 

below. 

He will hail each verdant passer-by and try to draw them 

in. 
Sell them bargains in sheepe clotdings for marvelous 

little tin. 
Now Jakey is the eldest of all that little crowd. 
And it gives him a distinction of which he is quite proud. 

One day Old Strouse had business that he could not well 

neglect 
At the court house — bout his taxes — I more than half 

suspect. 
So he called young Jakey to him and said he: "Chakey 

dear, 
I'm going avay this morning unt shan't be back, I fear, 

Until sometime after mid-day. So mind de store und house, 
Sell all de clotdings dot you can unt show you are a 

Strouse. 
I show you how I marks de brice ; I makes some dots like 

dese, 
Unt eff ery dot a dollar iss ; remember ofit you bleeze. 

Dis sute mit stwelf dots on der dicket py der collar, 
Must sell, remember Chakey, for de sum of uste stwelf dol- 
lar. 

32 



Unt so it iss mit all de rest, dere marked de self-same way, 
For each dot iippon der dicket a dollar must pay." 

So, having made the matter clear to little Jakey's mind. 
He hastened to the court-house, nor left one doubt behind. 
Returning home he met some friends who detained him at 

the park. 
And when he reached the store again it was way after dark. 

"Veil, Chakey, vas der peezness goot? Dit you some clotd- 

ing sell?" 
"Yaw, sure, I sell some clotding, unt I dinks I do quite well. 
I sell von man a dark brown coat mit fur uppon der collar. 
Unt an ondre man an offercoat I sell for forty dollar. 

"Mine Gott," cried Jakey's father ; the price gave him quite 
a shock ; 

For he'd no forty-dollar overcoats in all his shoddy stock. 

It took his breath he scarce could gasp. "Vare iss dot 
money, Chake? 

Some rascal fellers schwindle you, dots true unt no mis- 
take." 

"No, fader; here de money iss, all clean unt crisp unt 

new, 
Unt I safe der dicket from der coat unt show it here to 

you." 
Strouse counted out the money, found everything was 

right. 
No counterfeits amono- the bills, they all were clean and 

bright. 

Then he gazed upon the ticket, found twelve little dots of 
ink; 

33 




34 



All the other specks were made by naughty flies, I think. 
Strouse called his family to him saying : "Quick my child- 
ren dear, 
Kneel on der carpet rount me unt Chakey, too, right here. 

Unt you mine Rachael also, my own beloved wife, 
Pray each unt effery one of you, if you effer prayed in life. 
Unt, Oh my wife unt children, I tells you quick for vy. 
Ust let your sublication pe, 'Got pless dot leetle fly.' " 



TO LOIS ON HER BIRTHDAY. 

LINES ACCOMPANYING A PAINTING OF AN OPENING ROSE. 

The rose is the Queen of the flowers, 'tis said. 

And so, Dear Girl, on your natal day. 

Accept this rose from your Uncle Fred 

And your Aunty Jennie, and tell me pray 

What could be meeter, answer, ye churls, 

Than the Queen of the flowers, to the Queen of all Girls. 

TO MAGGIE ON HER WEDDING DAY. 

Fair, Oh fair! are the skies of June, 
When the robins nest and the roses bloom; 
When life of itself is a pure delight, 
And joy is supreme from morn till night. 

But brighter by far than June's fair skies. 
Is the lovelight beaming in Maggie's eyes. 
Who with dimpled cheeks and coal black hair 
Presents us a picture divinely fair. 

For the rose and the lily commingling mix 
From her forehead fair to her finger tips, 

35 




36 



Long may her eyes with the lovelight gleam, 
And all of her days be one blissful dream! 

May the sun shine bright and soft zephyrs play, 
P^or }-ou, sweet girl on your wedding day ! 
Oh, happy the bride and happy the groom. 
That now will commence their honeymoon. 

Any may you two be, thro the whole of your life, 
A fond proud husband and a loving wife, 
May sweet little children your union bless, 
To gladden your hearts with a fond caress. 

And an ample purse and a bounteous board, 
And all of life's treasures, your lot afford. 
May joy, love and happiness on you wait. 
And bright and sunny may be your fate — 
AMth naught of sorrow and naught of dread — 
Is the earnest wish of vour Cousin Fred. 



JULIUS STONE'S MISHAP. 

To Julius Stone, whose first automobile gave him so 
much trouble that his friends presented him with a toy 
automobile, accompanied with the following lines : 

Dear Stonie. old fellow. 

They say you got mellow 

And busted a flue in your automobile. 

The mishap it was sad. Sir. 

We feel for you, be gad Sir, 

For down in your heart how bad you must feel. 

AMien the durn thing it busted 
You were no doubt disgusted, 

37 



For the noise that it made, so the people all say, 

The escape of the steam 

To many did seem 

Like the discordant notes of a cal-li-ope. 

To allay all your sadness 

And brighten with gladness 

Your heart, make you happy, we hope and we trust, 

We send you this auto — 

We feel that we'd ought to — 

A machine that is warranted never to bust. 

Now this crowd is all thirsty. 

And forever accurst be 

The man that says "Nay." That's fair, don't you think? 

So hasten, Dear Julius, 

And don't try to fool us. 

But hand 'round the bottle, we'll all take a drink. 

THE OLD HOUSE AT THE END OF THE STREET. 

TO MY OI^D FRIEND, AL LATHAM. 

I sat by the open grate last night 

And watched the light in the embers play. 

And backward my fancy did take it's flight. 

Out through the darkness and gloom of night. 

To scenes once happy and bright and gay. 

To scenes that have vanished from earth away, 

Have vanished from earth forever and aye. 

To a quaint old house at the end of the street, 
That stood embowered 'mid the apple trees, 
Where oft as happy boys we'd meet 
And with shouts of laughter each other greet 
As we romped through the yard like a swarm of bees, 

38 



When with many a whoop and many a call, 
D'ye mind, Al. we played you were Claude DuVol/ 
And the rest of us officers on your track 
Determined to capture and bring you back, 

There was William Crosby and Doty Cook, 

And his brother Will and Al and Ed, 

And Edwin Parker, too, and look. 

Among the rest are Tom and Fred, 

Wliile the youngest of all — with many a prank — 

Is that imp of mischief, your brother Frank. 



How long I thus idly musing sat, I can never tell. 

But my good wife Jen gave me a shake and a gentle slap 

Saying ''Wake up, Fred, it is half past ten. 

Wake up, why don't you wake up, Fred? 

It is half past ten and time for bed." 

And so, as I climb my bed room stair, 

I breathe in my heart this little prayer — 

God bless the boys, where e'er they may be, 

That played with me of old 'neath the apple tree. 

THE HOUSE ON THE HILL. 

A SONG. 

There's a house in Grandview that stands on the hill, 

A neat little cottage of frame, 
May joy and contentment e're be the lot 

Of all those who may dwell in the same. 

Then God bless the husband and God bless the wife, 
And God bless the house on the hill! 



*Claude DuVol, the: noted highwayman. 

H9 



May good fortune cleave to them ever through life, 
And happiness follow them still. 

May dear little children enliven their hearth 
With mirth and with laughter and song, 

May sweet peace and plenty preside at their board 
Nor the bright days seem ever too long. 

With a horse and a cow and some fat little pigs, 

And chickens in plenty, galore, 
With hearts light and free as ever can be — 

Pray tell me who could wish for more. 

Then God bless the house that stands on the hill ! 

And God bless the husband and wife! 
May joy, peace and happiness be with them still 

And follow them ever throus^h life. 



PAT MURPHY. 

Pat Murphy be dad ! was a bould Orish lad 
As iver came from the county av Cork; 

Wan morning in May, 'twas a verry foin day. 
He sailed for the poort av New York. 

After sailin' awhile, more than three thousand mile. 
He arrived at the clock wan foin mornin' ; 

So up town he wint, for 'twas his intint, 
To secure him a place where his larnin' 

Would bring him a store av dollars galore— 

For any ould job he would do, Sor, 
So he tramped round the town, first up and thin down 

And at last found a place wid a grocer. 

40 



There he worked many days and tried for to plaiz, 

Aich wan that came there to buy, Sor; 
And his manner was mild to man, woman or child. 

For to suit wan and all he did thry, Sor. 

Wan bright afthernoon — Oi think 'twas in June — 
A foin lady came thriping that way, Sor; 

Said she, "Me dear man, gist as quick as ye can, 
Give me half a pound av good tay, Sor. 

A coil av good rope and some Ivory soap. 

Some sugar to go wid me coffey. 
Wan thing more I need, 'tis a pound av burd seed. 

And for me childer a lump av your taffy." 

Pat opened his eyes wid a look av surprise. 
He thought surely the woman was looney ; 

He first scratched his head, thin to her he said, 
''No doubt, Mum, ye think I'm a spooney. 

I know^ that, be dad ! I'm a grane Orisli lad, 
As iver walked by the lakes av Kilarney, 

But I've traveled a bit and have some mother wit. 
So give us a rist wid your blarney. 

By the doctor, at laste, and loikewise the praste. 
And by all larned min 'tis agreed. Mum, 

That burds come from eggs, gist as sure as they've legs. 
Divil wan iver grew from a seed, Mum!" 



41 



TO ORGANIZED LABOR. 

To all members of organized labor, individually and col- 
lectively, this little poem is most respectfully inscribed by 
the author : 

Ho ! ho ! ye knights of labor ; ye craftsmen stanch and true, 
I grasp your hand fraternal, for my faith is pledged in you ; 
You have builded up our cities ; you've likewise built the 

course 
That crosses o'er the continent, where speeds the iron horse ; 
And where was once a wilderness fair cities now repose. 
For labor's hand hath made the land to blossom like the rose. 

The ship that sails the ocean, uniting distant lands, 

And the palace of the grandee were built by labor's hands. 

And the hoarded wealth in billions that proud nations hold 

in store 
But represent the labor done by those who've gone before; 
For all the gold and riches that are now upon this earth 
There is naught within this wide world but labor gave it 

birth. 

Now, by this self-same token, by all that's good and fair, 
'Tis only right that labor should demand a larger sliare 
Of what labor's might produces ; of what I still insist 
That without the aid of labor it never could exist; 
For better homes, more leisure to read, for those who toil 
Within the grimy workshop, or those who till the soil. 

And so I say to craftsmen who battle for the right, 

''Stand steadfast with your brother, you will conquer in the 

fight. 
Then do not fear or falter, success will come at length, 

42 



If all will stand united, for in unity there is strength. 
Demand the Union Label of the clerks that on you wait; 
The Union Card, also, my friend, and see 'tis up to date." 

And now then, in conclusion, I have just one word to say : 
My conscience tells me that I'm right, deny it those who 

may, 
I bow the head and bend the knee to no proud millionaire, 
But I honor honest labor and craftsmen true and fair; 
So, ho ! ye knights of labor, ye craftsmen fair and true, 
I grasp your hand fraternal and I doff my cap to you. 

REGRET. 

A wanton youth, one day in June, 

In an orchard strayed, where the faint perfume 

Of the sweet wild roses filled the air. 

The skies were blue and the sun shone fair. 

And the joy of living thrilled him quite — 

His pulse beat high and is heart was light. 

He paused awhile at a murmuring brook ; 

From its limpid depths some stones he took, 

Smooth and round and hard w^ere they. 

He would gather them up and would then cast away 

At a tree, or a rock, or a clod, at will, 

Testing his strength and his boyish skill. 

On an apple tree there a little bird swung, 
As he poured forth his soul in a joyous song; 
Scarcely as big as a little tomtit, 
But he sang as though his throat might split. 
'Twas a song from the heart of pure delight. 
As pure and as sweet as a sunbeam bright. 
43 



The boy, and the bird, and the apple tree — 
The bird, and the boy, and the stones — Ah, me ! 
The boy saw the bird and he threw a stone 
With a fairer aim than he yet had known. 
It smote the bird true, and he gave a shout 
As the song and the Hfe of the bird went out. 

Long years have flown since that fatal day. 
Long years have passed, and L'm old and gray; 
But I often think of that morning bright. 
When the little bird sang with pure delight. 
And as oft as I think I so sadly sigh. 
For the wanton youth of that morn was I. 

And I sometimes th'uik, and perhaps I am right, 
That the little bird's song of pure delight 
Was more grateful by far to the Father Divine 
Than was ever a song or an act of mine, 
And my heart is filled with a sad regret 
At the wanton deed I can never forget. 



THE HAUGHTY PEACH. 

AN ALLEGORY. 

Once upon a time in the dim ages long since passed away, 
when the birds and the beasts and the reptiles and the 
fishes and the trees and the plants and the fruits had a 
language of their own and could converse with each other, 
there grew a beautiful peach tree. It stood in the midst of 
a large orchard surrounded by other beautiful peach trees, 
but this one tree was the largest and most beautiful of 
them all. It was a very handsome tree, far out of the or- 
dinary, and its fruit was very fine and luscious. It so hap- 
pened that on the very topmost bough of all there grew an 

44 



exceedingly fine peach, even for that tree of fine peaches, 
and every one who saw it could not help but admire the 
beautiful peach. 

I do not know how it came about, for she had no mir- 
ror. It may be that some vagrant humming bird or some 
wandering bee whispered it to her. But be this as it may, 
she all at once became impressed with the idea that she was 
a peach par excellence and far above any of her sister 
peaches. So much was she imbued v/ith this idea that she 
vowed to herself that no ordinary mortal should ever eat 
her, but that she would remain on her parent stem until 
some grand personage should come to claim her for his 
own. Well, time passed on, and the morning sun sent its 
warm rays down to her and she became more beautiful 
than ever, and many paused to gaze upon her and tried in 
vain to capture the prize, but she refused to loosen her 
hold upon the tree and awaited the coming of the great 
one who never came, and so at last men saw^ that she was 
overripe and not fit to be eaten. Then she w^ould fain have 
fallen if only a beggar had shaken the tree, but men passed 
her by in scorn and derision, and when the winds of winter 
blew through the branches of the tree they found her a 
dried up, withered old peach. 

On a peach tree high mid its branches fair, 
Grew a luscious peach, of a kind most rare. 
And she said to herself as she smiled in glee: 
*'Oh, I am a peach of high degree. 

My sister peaches may all be plucked. 
Be peeled and eaten or their juices sucked ; 
But fast I will cling to my parent tree. 
For I am a peach of high degree. 



45 



And, Oh, it is grand to be so high. 

Far out of the reach of the passer-by. 

Yes, I am a peach of high degree, 

And no Plebian mouth shall ever taste me. 

But fast to my parent tree I will cling. 

Where the zephyrs play and the sweet birds sing; 

Till time in passing to me shall bring, 

A lord or a duke or perhaps a king. 

To some such one I'll surrender my charms. 
When the tree he shakes, I will fall in his arms. 
But no common mortal shall ever taste me. 
For I am a peach of high degree. 

Time passed on. Many youths did stop 
And the peach tree shook, but she would not drop. 
But neither a lord nor a king or a duke 
Approached the tree or its branches shook. 

Then she grew overripe and she fain would fall, 
But no one was there to receive her at all, 
For she hung so high, far out of all reach. 
And now she is naught but a dried up peach. 

And so, they say, that peach today. 

Hangs there on the tree-top high. 

And men, bad and good, be they gentle or rude, 

So slightingly pass her by. They so slightingly pass her by. 

So, fair maidens all, take heed, I pray ; 

Consider your actions while yet you may. 

And though humble I would presume not to teach — 

Yet beware of the fate of the haughty peach. 

46 



A NONSENSICAL POEM. 

(to LOIS F N WHILE ON HER WEDDING TOUR.) 

Since the day when you did marry 
And you started forth with Harry, 

I should dearly like to have you tell me true 
If you ever have repented 
The day when you consented 

To be Mrs. H. D. F., Dear Girl, have you? 
In your traveling and your journeying, 
Your going and your returning, 

Have you met a faithful dog like Mr. B.? 
So tawney and so yellow 
Such a jolly dear old fellow. 

Or have you met a man that looks like me? 

Have you met a girl like Aunty, 
So giddy and so jaunty? 

Or a woman like your own staid Mama? 
And would you rather tarry 
In the South along with Harry, 

Or hasten home to meet with his Papa? 

W'hen you've read this foolish letter. 
Tear to tatters, or, still better, 

In the flame of your candle let it burn. 
Then sweep away the ashes. 
Along with other trash. 

Or consign them if it please you to an urn. 



47 



TO THE SAME. 1 

You ask me for verses — Well if I could write 

With a prophetic pen, tipped with poetic fire, 
Then I'd paint you a future in colors so bright ; 

Every joy I'd enhance, and calamity dire ] 

Should never frown on you — Your life it should be 

Like a ship on the ocean with canvas all set, 
A stately ship sailing a calm summer sea, 

With nothing to worry the crew or to fret 
The Captain (That's Harry, you are the mate), 

The crew should be children, fair girls and boys j 

The number I think half a dozen or more. 1 

The cargo consist of life's dearest joys. 
And each passing day should add to your store ] 

And bright smiling hope should your figurehead be, | 

While sailing so grandly on life's summer sea — - j 

Your Harry beside you to guide the ship's helm , 

In danger, your solace, your joy in each calm, J 

Till safe in the haven you anchor at last 
With life's sorrows over, the dangers all past. 

When the summons shall come to leave the life here 
And upward to God your soul shall ascend. 

You'll have naught to regret and nothing to fear, 
As your life has been happy, sweet may be its end. 

If I were a poet like Burns, Byron or Moore, 
Some picture like this (Dear girl) I'd have framed; 
But as I'm not gifted like those I have named, 
And am only a toiler on earth here instead, 
I'll bid you God speed and bless you once more. 
And sign myself truly, 

YOUR OLD UNCLE FRED. I 



48 



A SONG OF THE RIVER. 

To Mrs. C and her sister, Miss L , the following 

verses are most respectfully inscribed in happy remem- 
brance of a very pleasant afternoon passed on the Olentangy 
River, in what is now Olentangy Park, then known as The 
Villa. The first five verses were suggested to me during a 
stroll on the banks of one of our local streams, which, 
though not so grandly picturesque as some of our rivers, 
yet possesses a quiet beauty that is all its own. The remain- 
ing verses are the result of recollections of a trip that I 
once made in company with my wife and others down the 
Hudson River from Albany to New York City. Indian 
Head has since that time been blasted away, and the stone 
has been used to macadamize New York roads. 

I love to ramble by the brook 

And by the winding river 
On nature's face serene to look 

In mild and pleasant weather. 

I love to gaze on the deep blue sky 

That o'er the landscape arches 
As prone beneath the shade I lie 

Along the grassy marshes. 

Now rippling o'er the rounded stones 

The waters come a-purling, 
Reminding me of nimble feet 

In mazy dance a- whirling. 

The twittering swallows come and go; 
And darting hence and thither, 



49 



On buoyant pinions lightly borne, 
Their swift wings skim the river. 

Then on and on with ceaseless flow 

And ever noisy clatter, 
So runs the river through the vale, 

With never ending chatter. 

Till reinforced by other streams, 
It deepens and grows broader, 

A nation's fleet might ride at ease 
Within the river's border. 

From oft' the shores come fisher boats. 

With fisher nets a-trailing, 
And oftentimes on moonlit nights. 

Come pleasure boats a-sailing. 

And music's strains float o'er the stream, 
And sounds of rippling laughter. 

And lovers' lips kiss lovers' lips, 
Above the sparkling water. 

Then on and on the river flows 

Without a stop or falter, 
Past rocky headland jutting forth. 

The river's course to alter. 

Past farm and hamlet, village, town. 
And meadow lands low^ lying, 

Past wooded cliff and beetling crag. 
For ages, storm defying. 



Past grassy slope and sunny glade, 
Past Indian Head and palisade, 

To where the city lieth. 
Then on and one with mighty flow, 

Resistless in its motion. 
The surging waters onward go, 

To join the mighty ocean. 



CARL BAINTER. 

An honest dutchman whom they called Carl Bainter, 
Dwelt in Columbustown in years long gone. 

Honest and blunt, and well — he was a painter. 
He papered wahs and varnished things and so on. 

And tacked in glass and puttied windows too 

And did in fact such jobs as other painters do. 

In this same town there lived a brisk young lawyer 

His name? Well never mind his name. Let's call him 
Jones. 

Ardent. Ambitious. Himself he counted a topsawyer, 
A larger pebble if you please 'mong smaller stones, 

He had one treasure dearer far to him than life 

A lovely, sweet and charming little wife. 

They lived together in that part of the city 
Where dwell the people who are well to do. 

Cultured, Refined, Polite egad, and witty, 

And those who pride them that their blood is blue. 

The last I fear got very little for their pains 

For blue blood never filled an empty head with brains. 

Their home. A gothic cottage. Small but neat. 

The walks well kept. The porch was hung with flowers, 

51 



It stood some distance from the noisy street. 

The lawn was dotted here and there with bowers 
Or arbors, clambered o'er with creeping vines, 
And on the northern side there stood a row of pines. 

The place was cozy and they lived in clover 

With not a thing to mar the tenor of their life, 

Jones loved his home. He never was a rover 
But spent his leisure with his charming wife. 

Nor claimed his evening out as vested right, 

For Jones forsooth was never out at night. 

It chanced one spring he said unto his Kitty, 
I think my dear the house needs renovating, 

New paper on the walls would look quite pretty. 
The woodwork too, my dear 's in need of painting. 

And so I think I'll send and get young Bainter 

You know my love that he's a tip top painter. 

So Bainter came with brushes, pots and paint, 
With putty, oil and turpentine loud smelling. 

The odor almost made the lady faint, 

And went to work to paint the lawyer's dwelling. 

The parlor first then dining room and hall 

The bedrooms next. The kitchen last of all. 

Now Jones returning to his home that night 

Gazed round the rooms to view the progress made 

And feeling tired from his long walk (as well he might) 
To rest himself, his hand upon the doorcase laid. 

Making a broad smear upon the newly painted jam. 

Withdrew it then and muttered something very much like 
dam. 

Unto his startled wife, said he dear duckey 
See what a nasty, smeary mess I've made. 

52 



But Bainter comes again tomorrow. That is lucky, 

Have him retouch the spot whereon I've laid 
My hand, 'twas very wrong of me, my dear, I know, 
But when it is retouched I do not think 'twill show. 

The morning came and with it came the painter 
To finish up the job. E'er yet 'twas light. 

To him the lady said, Oh, come here Mr. Bainter 

I'll show you where my husband put his hand last night. 

The fellow stared and sure a clap of thunder 

From a clear sky had caused him no more wonder. 

He choked and stammered. Then he found his tongue. 

Oxcoose me off you blease teer Mrs. Chones, 
I do not vish to do somdings dots wrong. 

Ven I vos sinckle yet I make no pones 
To do sooch dings. Its droo I vas no saint, 
But I am marriet now. I uste come here to paint. 



LOVE AND DEATH— A PARAPHRASE.* 

AFTER KIPLING. 

Dan Cupid, the god of Love, one day 
Met the Angel of Death, at an Inn, they say. 
And Dan, the sly rogue, like a rollicking lout. 
Engaged with grim Death in a drinking bout. 

So down on the grass they each one threw 
The darts of Death and Love's Arrows, too. 
And there on the sward, commingled these lay 
While their owners diced till the break of day. 

Then each one gathered his quiver full. 
But the wine they had drunk had made them dull, 

53 




54 



And neither wist as he filled his sheath 

That each gathered some arrows of Love and of Death. 

Now believe me, Sweetheart, this is why 

Some old men love and young men die. 



*Rudyard Kipling recently wrote in the autograph album of a 
New York friend, the following lines which seem especially appro- 
priate today : 

Love and death once ceased their strife 
At the tavern of man's life, 
Called for wine and threw, alas, 
Each his quiver on the grass. 
When the bout was o'er they found 
Mingled arrows strewed the ground. 
Hastily they gathered them 
Each the loves and lives of men. 
Ah ! the fateful dawn deceived. 
Mingled arrows each one sheaved. 
Death's dread armory was stored 
With the shafts he most abhorred. 
Love's light quiver groaned beneath 
Venom-headed darts of death. 
'Save ye maidens.' This is why 
Old men love while young men die. 

— RUDYARD KIPLING. 



TO DAISY. 

The Violet is a modest flower, 
The Queen of all the Rose is, 
But the Daisy bright, 
With its petals white, 
Shines a star among the posies. 

And girls there are beyond compare 
Might fairly set one crazy 
With witching wiles 

55 



And joyous smiles — 
But none like unto Daisy. 

And so I love the little flower 
Whose namesake is our Daisy, 
Whose petals white 
In the broad sunlight 
Remind me much of Daisy. 

And when I leave this mundane sphere- 
Sometimes so dark and hazy — 
And 'neath the sod amid the shade 
My silent body shall be laid. 
Place on mv breast a daisv. 



SONG FOR LABOR DAY. 

Come all ye gallant craftsmen, ye sons of labor true, 
Come gather round and let us sing; this day was made for 

you. 
We'll shout and make the welkin ring with labor's song and 

story, 
We'll nail our banner to the peak and shout and sing Old 

Glory ! 

With footsteps firm and crests erect, all tyranny defying, 
With eyes aright and to the front, our banners proudly 

flying ; 
While martial strains float in the breeze, all telling labor's 

story, 
We'll nail our banner to the peak and shout and sing Old 

Glory ! 

Columbia's flag ! the Stars and Stripes ! The produest of 
the earth today ! 

56 



And tyranny and treason hide when our proud banner 

leads the way. 
Then let each freeman shout and sing, rejoicing in our 

story — 
We'll nail our banner to the peak and shout and sing Old 

Glory ! 

Let Britons sing "God Save the King" and Germans laud 

their Kaiser, 
Columbia's sons sing other songs ; the Yankee boys are 

wiser. 
Aye other songs and other strains Ave tell a different 

story — 
We nail our banner to the peak and shout and sing Old 

Glory ! 

THE VALENTINE CLUB. 

The Valentine Club was composed of railroad men and 
their friends and had its home in the hall over the business 
place of the late Charley Luft. Genial, Jovial, Jolly 
Charley, one of the most enthusiastic promoters of its in- 
terests ! At the first banquet given by the club, at which 
handsome Hamby Stump Avas toastmaster, I was present 
as the guest of Mr. Wm. Flynn, as companionable a gen- 
tleman as one could wish to meet. As an invited guest I 
was expected to contribute something in the way of a poem 
or a speech and a list of the guests and club members was 
furnished me, but the time was so short and I knew so lit- 
tle of the characteristics of the individual members that I 
could write only in a general way, using merely fictitious 
names. However my efforts were all too kindly received 
and when at the next banquet I was again the guest of Mr. 
Flynn I sought to please even more by mentioning club 
members and guests by name, so far as I could in the time 

57 



allotted to me. Mr. George Karb, at that time our sheriff, 
was also a guest and responded to the call of the toastmaster 
with a speech. Jerry O'Shaughnessey was another guest, 
and the cow mentioned in connection with his name is the 
one that he w^as reputed to have pastured on the lawn at the 
pumping station, to the disgruntlement of some of our wor- 
thy citizens. Some of the verses are execrable and are pub- 
lished only because of the request of friends who desire 

copies. THE AUTHOR. 

TO THE VALENTINE CLUB.- 

COLLFXTI\'ELY AND INDIVIDUALLY. 

The Valentine Club is as gallant a crew 

As ever winked at a girl or pulled cork from a bottle. 
Or drank with a friend a glass of Ben Brew, 

Or stood in the cab with a hand on the throttle, 
Or pulled the lever to give more speed. 
To the onward rush of their iron steed. 

And the men of the rail are gallant and true 

As ever a hero that fought in the wars ; 
And never a soldier that wears the blue 

Is stancher or braver than he of the cars. 
Open handed and generous, brave and free. 
The railroad man is the man for me. 

There are Harry Tompson and old Jim Jones 
And Teddy Wlieeler and Sammy Smith 

And Frank Delavan ; bless their bones ! 
They are the men to travel \vith — ■ 

The equal of any man, lord or king; 

They are the men whose praises I sing. 



*The Valentine Club was composed of railroad men and their friends. The 
aut'or, a guest at their banquet, offered, upon invitation, the above poem as his 
contribution for the evening. The names are fictitious. 



Each day do they go on their daily course 
Over the valley or up the steep grade, 

Controlling the speed of the iron horse ; 
Now in the sunshine and now in the shade, 

Now through the deep cut, now over the trestle, 

And now at the crossing sounding the whistle, 

Thus giving to others a warning of danger, 

To be wary and cautious, keep clear of the track— 

Tho' fear he knows not, for to fear he's a stranger ; 
And the echoing hills send in soft cadence back 

The whistle's shrill toot as it sounds o'er the vale 

And reechoes again from hill and from dale. 

At the end of his run and when off from his trip 
Some quiet retreat for repose he will find, 

A cigar for a smoke and a cool beer to sip, 

A good friend to chat with and then — do ye mind? 

He's as happy and careless, as free as a king — 

And these are the men whose praises I sing. 



AUTHOR'S OFFERING AT SECOND BANQUET. 

Mr. President and Gentlemen of The Valentine Club: 

It is customary among young ladies, when they are called 
upon to entertain their friends with a song or a piece of 
music played upon the piano or upon any instrument with 
which they are familiar, for Gladys or Julia or plain Mary 
Ann to make numerous excuses before consenting to play 
or sing for the benefit of their hearers. It is, "Oh, dear, 
no ; I cannot possibly sing tonight, for I have such a horrid 

59 



cold, and besides, I am entirely out of practice as I have not 
touched the keys of my instrument for ages ; and then, I 
never play or sing any more for company." After much 
coaxing and many expostulations she consents to be led to 
the piano where she sings and plays some popular piece in 
fairly good style, receiving therefor the plaudits of her 
friends and her guests. The pretense, for it is nothing 
more, is a shallow one, and I shall not emulate the ladies in 
this respect, but shall do the very best I can with the data 
that I have at my command. 

I hope that the individuals named in my verses will take 
no exceptions to anything that I may say therein, for I 
assure you that all has been written in the best of good 
humor. Besides, at a time like this, all jokes should go free, 
even as they do in harvest. 

I have not attempted to name each person here tonight. 
That would indeed be an Herculean task far beyond my 
powers ; besides it would take up too much time in the read- 
ing thereof. For the faultiness of my verses I beg your 
kind indulgence. Being a very modest man, I feel some- 
what abashed after listening to the very able efforts of the 
gentlemen who have preceded me, and, were I permitted to 
do so, I should like to go way back to some obscure corner 
of the room and there sit down. Denied this privilege, how- 
ever, I console myself with the thought that if you can stand 
the ordeal, I must. With this brief apology, I humbly pre- 
sent to you my offering for the evening: 

A year has lapsed since last we met within this festal hall, 
Alas ! I say it with regret, a brother who then with us met 

hath answered death's roll call. 
And now ere next a toast we drink in ruby wine or malted 

barley. 



60 



Let each one pause and breathe a sigh for genial, jovial, 

jolly Charley. 
Beside this festal board he sat and with us joined in jest 

and quip, 
In glad acclaim and laughter shared, as passed the jest from 

lip to lip. 
Then fill the bowl and drain the glass ; this life's span 

'twill quickly pass ! 

But while we linger on the brink of River Styx, and ere 

we cross it. 
Let each one fill his glass to drink to Charley Luft, then 

down we toss it. 
And as we drain the flowing bowl, ere yet the lees have left 

our glass. 
We gently sigh, "God rest his soul." One gentle sigh, then 

onward pass ; 
We may not linger with the dead, the living now must claim 

our care. 
For it is true when all is said, each one his burden he must 

bear, 
Each one must meet his fate alone, each one must face the 

Reaper grim. 
He hurls his dart, our breath is done. He beckons and we 

follow him. 
Then fill them up and drain your glasses. Life's but a 

span and quickly passes. 

But now I turn to brighter themes. Let joy, not sorrow, 

here abound. 
With shouts we'll make these rafters ring, and pass the 

merry jest around. 
Then let's be happy, shout and sing, and each and every 

one be jolly. 

61 



With merry jest and quip and fling, we'll banish care and 

melancholy. 
Who could be sad where all are gay ? Each one the prince 

of all good fellows. 
Tho' storms without may rage or play, e'en with old Satan 

at the bellows, 
W^e heed it not but keep our revel, we drink and shout and 

laugh and sing 
And bid dull care go to the devil. With joy we make this 

old hall ring — 
For life's a span, it quickly passes, so fill them up, then 

drain your glasses. 
And now before I take my seat, let me extend my little say 
And thus the club and members greet. Permit me my re- 
spects to pay : 

First our worthy grand toastmaster. None are swifter, 
none are faster 
In expressions of good will to one and all. 
I mean handsome Hamby Stump, may he keep us on the 
jump. 
And may each one quickly answer to his call. 

Now the next one on the list, and he surely would be missed 
Were he absent from this jolly crew tonight, 

Is the genial Mr. Flynn, who has bade me come again. 
And that is why I'm with you here tonight. 

He's a jolly, gallant fellow, and his heart is ever mellow 

With feelings of kindness for his race. 
And it's ever light and free, as you can very plainly see, 

By just gazing on his very handsome face. 

Next is Mr. Joseph Miller. May he smoke Havana filler, 
May he never lack a friend to drink with him. 

62 



He is fond of all good cheer, likes a glass of lager beer, 
Nor thinks he that good living is a sin. 

And then comes Mr. Spicer, none are neater, none are nicer, 
And to hear him pound a boiler, you would laugh. 

May he never want a friend, have lots of cash to spend, 
And many a glass of lager may he quaff. 

Next is Mr. Christ Kuhn. The name rhymes with that of 
Moone, 

That's my own name, as you doubtless may all know, 
With his hand upon the throttle, may he never lack a bottle, 

And his engine be a fast one, and not slow. 

Then there is W. R. Davis, and, may the good Lord save us ! 

To omit him sure would be a deadly sin. 
So now I write him down, and I hope he will not frown 

On my efforts to say a word for him. 

Then comes Mr. Sam Draffin, who'd set you all a-laughin' 
To see him punch the tickets when taking up his fare. 

And sure he is a dandy ; the girls say he's the candy, 
So of sly, smiling Sammy I bid you all beware. 

For the girls he would tease them, egad, he would squeeze 
them. 

Chuck them under the chin or steal a sweet kiss. 
Were she matron or maid, 'tis the same, I'm afraid, 

For nothing to Sammy comes ever amiss. 

Now here conies Mr. Burris ; he is with us, he is for us, 

With his drugs and medicines galore. 
He will cure our aches and pains, from toothache to chil- 
blains, 
All prescriptions he will fill at his store. 

63 



Then there is Mr. F. Geyer. May his train e'er be a flyer, 

And smooth may his pathway ever run. 
May he never lack the chink and have lots of beer to drink, 

And his life be ever crowded full of fun. 

Now Mr. Ed. Murphy, may he long on the turf be 
A disciple of Faust. He's a printer well tried. 

With type in his case and he at his place 

When setting up matter may they never be pied. 

Mr. Thompson is next, a representative, he, 
Both learned and wise as ever can be. 
May he ever be careful when making the laws 
For justice and honor advancing the cause. 
Upholding the right and scourging the wrong— 
For this do I give him a place in my song. 

Then Mr. D. Garnder, who comes from the hills 
Of Virginia, so fair, for a virgin queen named, 

And famous alike for its feuds and its chills. 

For sweet pretty girls and for fair mountain streams. 

We all bid him welcome here with us tonight. 

May he ever be joyous, his future be bright. 
And ever be happy, and rosy his dreams. 

Now then, clear the track for his honor, Samuel Black, 
He's a man of distinction and a jurist of renown. 

And should the good Lord spare him to visit London or 
Paris, 
The auhorities will present him with the keys of the town. 

Ere I pass him let me say, come what will or must or may, 
Tho' at present time our court house he's adorning, 

I now freely tell you that — and just paste it in your hat — 
We will land him in the White House some fine morning. 
(Cheers and laughter.) 

64 



There's Jerry O'Shaughnessey, may the good Lord bless ye! 

I mean tall and handsome Jerry, he of the cow. 
They say he's shy a job, but that's no loss, be gob! 

For he's very well equipped to start a milk ranch now. 

He knows the worth of water and very sure he'd oughter, 
For he's had some years experience with the pump, 

The pump's the milkman's friend, and, with the aid 'twill 
lend, 
His competitors he could keep upon the jump. 

Here's to Jerry and his milk ! Sure he's just as fine as silk, 

And we each one and all wish him well, 
For sure he is a daisy, and he used to set them crazy, 

All the young girls, as Fve often heard them tell. 

There is Air. Williams, Andy, and he surely is a dandy. 
As each one here tonight now ought to know. 

He says just what he thinks and has oft set up the drinks, 
For Andy he's a daisy, don't you know? 

There's my friend Billy Miner, none are better, none are 
liner. 

He can sing like an angel and trill like a lark ; 
He will sing of the grove, he will sing of the dove, 

Egad, he will sing you of love in the park. 

He will sing you a song of the broad-horned moose, 
He will sing you a song of the turkey or goose, 
He will sing of the wine, he will sing of the feast, 
He will sing of the ladies (God bless them), not least. 
For Billy's a singer and likewise a trump, 
I think so, Fm sure, don't you, Mr. Stump? 

With the keys of his castle comes the keeper of our 
bastile, 

65 



I mean smiling Mr. Karb, who's so very tall and trim; 
He is quite a lady's man, deny it those who can. 

Full well he knows a good thing; there's nothing wrong 
with him. 

He is certain to hold over, may he ever live in clover, 
And the shekels from his office may he draw ; 

And never on court's order may I ever be a boarder 
With him, to satisfy a process of the law. 

For here's where comes the rub, I should not like the grub, 
The service, the attendance nor the room, 

The steam heat that's for firemen, nor my enforced retire- 
ment 
Or the eating bread and 'lasses with a spoon. 

And now, then, there is our Mr. Jacob Bauer, 

Who works for the Union, selling clothing, by Jove ! 

He will sell you pants or vest, hat or coat and all the rest, 
From a 'kerchief or a necktie to a glove. 

And it goes without the telling that he is ever willing 
To wait upon the gents, tho' the ladies he'd prefer. 

And he does the same with grace, with an ever-smiling face, 
But if your ivifc is with you, he would ratJicr wait on her. 

There is Mr. H. Pond, of whom we are all fond. 
Last year he gave us a charming little talk. 

And we hope that tonight with something just as bright 
He will give us food for thought as homeward we walk. 

Now I think you've had enough of this very silly stuff. 
No doubt you are sorry that I ever have begun, 

So if you will excuse me, and Fm sure you won't refuse me, 
I will hie me to my corner and will there sit me down. 

66 



In conclusion let me say for each one here today 
That we've all enjoyed your charming little lunch; 

May you all be well and hearty till you give your next tea 
party, 
And may I then be among you in the bunch. (Cheers.) 

Sung : 
The list is a long one, my voice not a strong one, 

And doubtless there are many my verses have missed. 
But were you all ladies, then may I go to Hades 

If there's ary one here that I would not have kissed. 

I'm begging your pardon, your hearts do not harden. 
And pray do not blame me for trying to sing. 

Sure the wine or the whiskey has made me feel frisky, 
And you're all jolly fellows, each fit for a king. 
(Laughter and applause.) 



CHLOE 

A VACCINATION STORY 

A dusky maiden whom the folks called Chloe, 
Dwelt in a city large, some little time ago. 
The place infected, for the smallpox raged, 
The sick were quarantined, in fact were caged 
On orders issued by the city dads, 
Tho many murmured and pronounced them cads. 

The powers that be as I have just now stated, 
Quarantined the sick, and ordered vaccinated 
The well. Among the rest who came to test the virus 
Was our friend Chloe. But not by her desire as 
She would much rather to have stayed away. 
But 'twas beyond her power to say them nay. 

G7 



An ounce of prevention, we have oft been told, 
Is vv^orth a pound of cure. A saying trite and old. 
Those who doubt it oft have cause to rue it, 
And if I had more space I'd plainly show it. 
But I must on and tell my little story. 
Without evasion, simile or allegory. 

To the Doctor came our good friend Chloe, 

With others waiting in a silent row. 

To take their turn and meet the dread ordeal, 

For tho the pains were slight their fears were very real. 

At last Miss Chloe was reached. "Come bare your arm," 

The Doctor said, "'twill do you no great harm." 

The girl replied, "I washes fo mah living, Boss, 

And if my ahm gits soah 'twill be a loss ! 

I tells you dis, Boss, and let it be a caution 

Dat if mah ahm gits soah I caint weW do mah washin." 

"Then bare your leg, and quick, my Dusky Beauty, 

You will be vaccinated, for I'll do my duty." 

"Oh mah good Lo'd, Boss, not mah laig, oh no. 
Ah stands upon mah laig, I deed wont have it so." 
"Upon your cheek, would spoil your ebon face, 
Your bust wont do, so now you name the place. 
Your arms you wash with, on your legs you stand. 
But you'll be vaccinated, or may I be damned. 

Now tell me quickly, for 'tis yours to choose. 
What member have you that you do not use." 
With tearful face she meets the doctor's frown, 
Saying "Boss taint very often dat I do sit down. 
Taint very often dat I use a chair. 
So if you please boss vaccinate me dere." 

68 



THE RIVER'S BRIDE. 

A TRx\GEDV. 

A college youth from out the city grand, 

Who with his college chums, all on an outing bent, 
Had found their way to a broad flowing stream, 

And there, amidst the wild woods, they pitched their tent. 

Their scanty furniture they bestowed at will, 

A hammock here and there, and some camp stools; 

Some rods and guns and hooks and nets, as well. 
Camp stoves likewise, and some few cooking tools. 

For they proposed to spend their summer there, 
Augment their larder by their rod and gun. 

And to the breeze fling every worldly care. 
Find sturdy, ruddy health in wind and sun. 

They were a goodly group to look upon. 
Active and agile, stout and strong, but neat ; 

Their number four, but one his friends called John, 
Transcended all the rest ; he was an athlete. 

In height, I'm told, he stood in stocking feet, 

Tho' at a first glance you would scarcely guess it. 

At something rather more than six tall feet — 
Proportion fine, ah, me ! how few possess it. 

His hair was brown and curling round a head 
Like some fine sculpture by a master wrought. 

The nose not Grecian, slightly aquiline instead. 
His mouth expressive, and his inmost thought 

You'd almost read in his bright laughing eyes. 
His lips were full, not sensual or coarse, 

G9 



And when he spoke you'd Hsten with surprise 
That one so young possessed so vast resource 

Of language, for his words were fine, 

And flowed hke rippHng waters from his hps 

A wit that sparkled like some rare old wine, 
And with an eloquence none could eclipse. 

In sooth, he was a goodly sight to see, 
A form that women loved to gaze upon, 

Majestic, grand and like to some tall tree 

When the morning sun his rays doth cast thereon. 

Ardent he was of temperament, and strong of will, 
And few there were who cared to say him nay, 

Ardent and strong, aggressive too, but still 
Strove to be just, to those who came his way. 

One day he wandered farther than his wont. 
In quest of game, so when the night was come 

He still was distant from the camp and tent. 

And then he turned aside to seek some rustic home 

Where he might food obtain, and shelter from the night, 
For, in his daily rambles, he had noted oft 

A hamlet clustered by the river side, and to right 
Of an old mill, whose race with murmurs soft 

The mill wheel turned, a cottage stood — 
A cottage quaint, and with a red tiled roof 

Whose gables, glowing in the light, looked good 
To our tired hunter. Then he sought the proof 

Of western hospitality, nor sought he this in vain. 
For lo, in answer to his gentle knock, 

70 



\\'ide op'ed the door, and said a voice, "Come in!" 
A maiden stood before him, and the shock 

Of seeing a young stranger standing thus before her 
Caused the warm blood to mantle her fair cheek ; 

Confused, but not for long, his manner did restore her, 
And to his questions she replied in accents meek : 

''My father comes anon, he owns the mill 

That you have passed in coming here tonight. 

Pray Sir, be seated and excuse me till 

My father comes." She left him and less bright 

The room to him did seem, since she was gone. 

She was in verity a sweet and lovely creature, 
Her face refined, and when she spoke her very tone 

Expressed her grace, her culture and good nature. 

Her age I think would scarcely reach eighteen. 
Her eyes were blue and golden was her hair. 

And when she spoke, like pearls her teeth did gleam 
And as a whole she was indeed divinely fair. 

Not long the hunter waited ; soon the father came, 

The mother also, and welcomed him to house and fare. 

The evening meal was now prepared and to the same 
The guest invited; he did full justice to his share, 

For he was hungry, athirst, and very tired, and so 
When bedtime came they led him to the best bedroom, 

And he in truth was very glad to go. 

Nor wakened till the morrow's sunlight filled the room. 

That morn at breakfast he had far more leisure 
To note the girl, and when their eyes did meet 

71 



He noticed also, and it gave him pleasure, 

Her blushes come and go, that she was fair and sweet. 

Oh love, thou art indeed a very potent factor 
In the affairs of this great world of ours ! 

Let others rail at thee, who will, but I'll be no detractor 
Of Cupid's charms and love's bewitching powers. 

It was with them a case of love at the first sight — 
Mutual, for he too had felt love's piercing dart, 

And to them both the world seemed very bright 
Since they had met. But now the time to part 

Had come, yet was he very, very loath to go 
And lingered long when he had said adieu ; 

At last he started for the camp, and so 

He waved a last good-bye ere he was lost to view. 

'Twas love at first sight, as I've just now said. 

No doubt you've felt the same, oh gentle reader, mine, 

A malady affecting both the heart and head, 
But when the passion's grand 'tis just sublime. 

In sooth I've felt myself, the boy god's cruel dart 
When, backed by witching eyes, he would let drive, 

Oft have his fiery arrows pierced my young heart. 
For I was a lover at the early age of five. 

But 'tis not of myself that I would write. 

But of our good friend John and his fair \'enus ; 

Mine is another story, very different quite — 
Some day I'll tell it, you shall judge between us. 

But visions of my own young days will come, 
Obtrude them 'twixt myself and this, my paper — 



Excuse me, reader, if I jot one down. 

My pen is stubborn and it plays this caper : 



REMINISCENT. 

Oh, Maggie L., Sweet Maggie L., 

Tho' years have passed since last we met, 

The memories of thy witching spell, 
Around my heart, they linger yet. 

A bay, a boat, and I afloat 

With you upon the water, 
Dan Cupid, too, sits there with you, 

Eve's fairest, sweetest daughter. 

He aims a dart, and sooth, my heart 

Is pierced beyond recover. 
Your lips meet mine, 'tis bliss divine, 

And I your happy lover. 

Oh happy day, now far away, 

Alas, returning never, 
But ah, 'twere bliss with you. Fair Miss, 

To float and kiss forever. 

Long years have flowni, IVe older grown. 

But tho' long leagues may sever. 
And tho' the sea between us be, 

I'll love you, Sw^eet, forever. 

Ah, well a day ! I'm old and gray, 

And fortune, fame and glory've missed me, 
But envious fate cannot abate 

The happy thought, that you have kissed me. 

73 



Forgive me, reader, for this very sad digression; 

Tis a bad habit that I sometimes have. 
Scenes long since passed, hke this, will find expression, 

And at such times I am the very slave 

Of these sweet memories of the long ago ; 

When they crowd on me I perforce must write 
And will I, nill I, whether I would or no. 

Again excuse me, for it is not right 

That I should break thus on my story's thread, 

So to return, then, to my o'er true tale — 
Our hero on his way to camp, as I've just said, 

Paused at the turn that led him to the vale 

Where was the tent, his kerchief round his head 

He waved, and then took up his lone and tedious tramp; 

With long and sturdy strides he forged ahead, 
For it was yet some weary miles to camp. 

He reached the camp at last and found his friends 

Anxious and worried at his long delay 
In reaching them, insisting also that he make amends 

By telling his adventures of the preceding day. 

He told them how he wandered far and wide. 

Of how the night came on, and that he shelter sought. 

And found it in the cottage by the old mill side. 

But of the girl he found there, faith, he told them naught. 

For this, his first love, was to him by far too holy 

To let them make a jest of, as well he knew they would, 

If they learned of his amour; 'twas his purpose solely 
To keep his council and hide it from them if he could. 

74 



But from that day the woods for him had no more charm, 
Yet often in the shadows he would He and dream 

Of his Louella, and in colors bright and warm 

Would paint their journey down life's flowing stream. 

And oft he would absent himself from camp, 
Pleading some business in the distant town, 

But went not thither, he instead would tramp 

To that fair cottage, sheltering her he called his own. 

And he was very welcome, for they loved to hear him tell 
His quaint adventures, loved to hear him talk, 

And by the wooded hill with her he loved so well, 
Or by the riverside at twilight they would walk. 

Sometimes a sonnet unto her he would indite, 

And he with amorous words would tell his ardent love. 

With fluent pen, love's burning words would write. 
And pour out his heart's homage to his lady love. 

And once when she too coy had seemed to be, 

He wrote her thus in a beseeching strain, 
A warm and ardent, a fond lover's plea, 

That she would grant him favor and thus ease his pain. 

HIS PLEA. 

The rising sun illumes the landscape bright. 
And with rich radiance beautifies the scene. 

The shades of darkness fly before the light. 
All nature smiles and joy doth reign supreme. 

The birds on high their joyous notes do raise 

And in the ear of heaven pour forth their gladness 

In happy rapturous songs of praise 

From hearts that never knew a trace of sadness. 

75 



Thus in my heart when thou doth smile on me, 
All sorrow, care and dark forebodings fly, 

My wildly bounding heart doth throb with glee. 
All gladdened by the sunshine of thine eye. 

My heart with rapture fain would rise and sing, 
In praise of thee, My Own, the whole day long. 

The slumbering echoes I would make to ring, 
And thou shouldst be the burden of mv song- 

I'd sing thy matchless form, thy grace, thy beauty. 
Thy sparkling wit, thy dainty hands and feet. 

Thy lovely eyes and charming mouth, so pretty 
That all combine to make a whole so sweet. 

Had I the gift of poesy or song. 

The genius of a Burns or of a Byron, 
Then would I, in some language sweet and strong, 

Tell how thy loveliness had my heart set fire on. 

There's naught for thee I would not dare to do, 
There's naught for thee I would not dare to be. 

For thee. Beloved, I'd search the whole world through. 
For thee, Leander-like, I'd even swim the sea. 

Then, oh my Darling, to my entreaty list, I pray. 
Nor 'gainst me harden that sweet heart of thine. 

But in thine heart let love assert its sway. 

And yield to love's embrace, Sweet One, and mine. 

If I were dead and buried neath the sod. 

And thy sweet form should press the grass above me, 
A thrill of joy would reach to my abode, 

And e'en my very ashes leap to love thee. 



Oh, Darling, we were made for one another. 
There is no power on earth that should us part ; 

For thee, I gladly would forsake all other, 
Then let me. Darling, press thee to my heart. 

And when she'd read his warm and amorous plea. 
What wonder that her heart went out to him. 

He was her licgc, her lord, her LOVE, and she 
Yielded her homage, charms and ALL to him. 

Oh you, my gentle reader, blame them not, I pray, 
If that they strayed from out the very narrow path, 

Of strictest virtue, innocent of wrong, and happy, they 
Thought not of the morrow^, nor the coming day of wrath. 

I know such things are very wrong and very bad, 
And I, dear reader, would never do like this, 

Even to tell of it doth make my heart feel sad, 
I sorrow for them, that they did amiss. 

For they w^ere young and amorous, full of youthful fire. 
And tho' I pity them, I cannot blame o'er much. 

Youth is the season of our fond desire. 
The story's old and manv there be such. 



Thus waned the summer, the autumn came anon, 

But still he lingered by the river side. 
Waited and lingered, tho' his friends had gone 

Back to the city. They did him deride. 

That he should linger thus by wood and stream. 

Then came a message from his most fond mother. 
Saying, "Haste thee home. My Boy ; I had a dream 

Concerning thee of evil, that did thy young life smother. 



I saw thee standing on the outer verge 

Of a vast precipice, a chasm dark and grim 

Gaped far below, and murky waters surge 

About the base of those stern clilTs to swallow him 

That should by mischance fall into that gaping hell. 

And, as I gazed, I saw thee grope thy way 
Unto the very edge, and then with shriek you fell 

Into that dark abyss, and all of my life's day 

Was quenched. So haste thee home. My Boy, 

And bid my morbid fears begone, depart. 
Until I see thee safe there's naught of joy, 

Only black sorrow that can fill my heart. 

Then haste to me and calm my wild distress, 
Thou art my only son, my joy, my pride. 

Should ill befall thee, then dolh not life possess 

One charm for me. Then home, ]\Iy Boy, and to thy 
mother's side." 

Thus importuned, prepared he thence to go 

Unto his home within the city large and grand. 

First to his fond Louella hastened he to say adieu 
Ere yet he tore himself away from her, and 

So bade her be of good cheer. " 'Tis not for long we part. 

Before yon moon is old I will be at thy side 
To clasp thee once again to this fond loving heart, 

And thou in very truth shall be my happy bride." 

With many a tear and many a fond caress 

They lingered o'er their parting, till at last perforce 



He could no longer stay, but, cheering her distress 

As best he could, mounted his saddle, took himself to 
horse. 

With hand upon the pommel, to her bending down 
He pressed one ardent kiss upon her ripe, red lips, 

One last embrace ; then he at last was gone, 

But turned again and kissed to her his finger tips. 

Then passed from sight and never more was seen of men 
Who knew him. For from that day, that very hour. 

All trace of him was lost ; ne'er on earth again 
Did mother, friend or sw^eetheart see him more. 

But after many, many years had passed away. 

Some men reopened an old gravel pit, long since disused, 

And there beneath the earth, the gravel, and the clay, 

Found bones of rider and of horse in one foul mass con- 
fused. 

And by a signet ring he wore they knew 'twas John. 

His horse that morn wath him had run away, 
Bearing him to that cursed pit and plunging down 

Was covered deep by falling stones and earth and clay. 

Thus was his mother's dream of him fulfilled, 
And long she mourned the absence of her son. 

And weary w^aited, knowing not that he was killed, 
Waited and watched till her own life's sands had run. 

What of the girl? She too sorrowed and waited long, 

The autumn passed and chilly winter came 
And lapsed, then came the spring, but brought no song 
To her sad heart, weary with watching, yet she watched 
in vain. 

7'9 



'Tis now the month of June, when blooms the rose, 

Balmy the air and fragrance fills the breeze. 
With murmuring sound the rippling brooklet flows, 
And gently sighing zephyrs fan the maple trees. 



But one scene more and my sad tale is done, 

The last, the saddest scene. Dear Reader, of it all. 

The story's true, or else Td not begun. 
But now ere long Til let the curtain fall. 

LAST SCENE OF ALL. 

A cottage quaint, by a country road, 

With a latticed porch and a climbing vine. 

Half hid by the trees near a river broad. 
And the rays of the sun in the eventime 

Gild gable and chimney and red tiled roof, 
Ere he sinks to his rest behind the hill. 

And, save the lone traveler's horse's hoof, 
A quiet reigns and the night is still, 

Save the low of the kine by the river side, 
Or the plaintive note of the whippoorwill. 

Or the plash of an oar in the flowing tide. 
Or a distant owl on the wooded hill. 

For the sigh of the wind in the maple trees 
Creates no murmur to awaken the night. 

Nor the rippling river, for sounds like these 
But enhance the calm of the waning light. 

Now the bright full moon in the eastern sky 
Fills all of the air with its mellow light, 

80 



And over the tree tops mounting high, 
Discovers a boat where the ripples bright 

Gurgle soft o'er the rounded stones, 

Faint and soft as the hum of bees, 
A murmur faint, and in dulcet tones 

As a zephyr sighing among the trees. 

Now a girlish form wath golden hair. 

From out of the cottage doth wend her way, 

Aye, a girlish form with a face so fair, 
Down to the spot where the old boat lay; 

Where the waters, rippling over the stones, 
Murmured and sang in the soft moonlight, 

A sad sweet song, and in dulcet tones. 

Here's a lethe for you, oh Sad One, tonight. 

For a mother, alas, she soon would be, 

A mother, alas, and yet no bride. 
And she bitterly wept and sighed, ''Ah me, 

'Twere better by far that I had died, 

Ere my false lover I ever had met ! 

But he seemed so true and I loved him so ! 
I loved, oh God, I love him yet. 

Tho' false to me, I love him yet ; oh God, oh God, I love 

him so !" 

Awhile she sat with her head bowed low. 

And her heaving bosom rose and fell, 
"Oh, who will let my fond mother know 

Of her daughter's shame, and who dare tell 

My father, stern, of his child's disgrace? 
'Twere better by far that I should lie 

81 



Here in the river, and hide my face 

From all of the earth, and that I should die. 

For I could not endure my mother's tears, 

My companions' scorn, and my father's curse ; 

Death may be bitter, I am young in years, 
But a living shame to me would be worse. 

And if my loving so true should be a sin, 

May God forgive me, my shame I will hide. 

I should have been the wife of him — 
Tonight I will be the river's bride." 



The morning came and the sun's fair light 
Shone over the river, the cottage, and hill. 

And there in the shallows near the ripples bright, 
They found her form, so cold and so still. 

They brushed the hair from her fair young face. 
They dug her a grave by the river side. 

They raised a stone and on it did trace : 
"Here resteth Louella, The River's Bride." 



A DRINKING SONG. 
I. 

Though your lass may prove false and your friend may 
betray 
And the world go all wrong to your thinking, 
A solace you've left — shall I tell you the same? 
It is drinking. It's drinking. It's drinking. 
There's the sparkling champagne that is bright in the glass, 
Burgundy is darker, I'm thinking; 

82 



Moselle is as bright as the new morning light — 
And so let's be drinking and drinking. 

II. 

If your wife is a scold do not mind it a bit, 

For you'll feel light-hearted and frisky, 
All your sorrows will flee, and happy you'll be 

If you drink a few glasses of whiskey. 
So, hll up our glasses, let's drink to our lasses 

A full bumper now without winking. 
We'll quaff off the glasses we've pledged to our lasses — 

And so let's be drinking and drinking. 

III. 

Life's burdens are heavy, they bear on us all. 

From mine, sure, I'll never be shrinking 
While this solace I've left, let me whisper it now, 

It is drinking. It's drinking. It's drinking. 
Then each fill his glass ! To the brim let it be 

With champagne, old port, or good whiskey. 
Nor cherish a doubt while drinking a bout 

With friends in good wine or old whiskey. 

IV. 

The old heathen gods had Lethe's dark stream 

To drink from, when they fain would cease thinking, 
But our Lethe below is the rich ruby wine; 

Then let us be drinking and drinking. 
Dame fortune is fickle ; she may frown on your path 

And not use you well to your thinking. 
But never you'll mind ! A bumper we'll quaff, 

And so we'll keep drinking and drinking. 



83 



TO MY SISTER CAROLINE. 

(NEARING THE END.) 

I am sitting by my window and I watch the maple leaves 
As they flutter, flutter, flutter to the ground, 
For a frost has nipped them lately, 
And the trees that once sedately 
A most grateful shade did spread on all around 
Are denuded now and bare save a few leaves here and there. 
Whose fellows lie in masses on the ground. 

And every passing breeze, as it floats among the trees. 

Doth loose its own contingent, bear them down. 
Soon will the trees be bare and neither here nor there 

Shall a solitary leaf on them be found. 
And as I watch the leaves dropping ever from the trees. 

My thoughts revert to friends that I have known 
Who have passed from earth away — they could no longer 
stay — 

And I am left to mourn them all alone. 

Now on our faniily tree there remains but you and me. 

Two faded leaves that soon must loose their hold, 
And ere long must flutter down like the faded leaves and 
brown. 

To our final resting place beneath the mould. 
Ah, well! I'm not regretting that my life's sun is setting. 

And I surely do not fear to meet the end. 
Thoughts of death are not distressing, nor is too long life a 
blessing, 

And I little care how soon may come the end. 



84 



CHARLEY W N'S LAMENT. 

I cannot go a-tishing now, 

Sometime I will go (?) maybe. 

At present I must stay at home, 
And nurse my little baby. 

My wife she loves to see baseball, 
And faith ! I don't deny her. 

Why did she steal my fishing things. 
And put them in the fire? 

Alas, my heart with grief is bowed. 
For better things I'm wishing. 

May Providence smile on my path, 
And let me go a-fishing. 

Oh, may my wife more lenient be, 

Without delay or parley. 
Unless I go a-fishing soon, 

'Twill be the death of Charley. 



PAT'S MISTAKE. 

A bold son of Erin whose footsteps had led him 
Away from Old Ireland to Columbia's fair shore, 

Where in exile he wandered until he said to him : 
"Faith I'll tarry here, I will wander no more." 

The time it was summer and Paddy went fishing 
On the banks of a stream in Ohio, I think. 

In the breast of his coat he'd a flask of good whiskey. 
And each now and then he would take a sly drink. 



He baited his hook, cast the same in the stream, 

And waited awhile for the fishes to bite. 
But the Divil a fish, bass, sucker or bream, 

Even nibbled a bit Pat's heart to delight. 

At last, growing weary and gazing around 
He espied a small turtle asleep in the sun. 

Pat thought 'twas a treasure for sure he had found; 
To possess himself then of the prize he did run. 

The beast took alarm, quickly made for the stream 
With all of the speed that its nature possessed. 

Pat stood there aghast. Then he gave one wild scream. 
''May the good saints defend us! :\[ay we ever be blest! 

By the Mother of Moses and the \'irgin," he swore, 
"Then the Dear Lord protect us. Forgive us our sins. 

Sure the like of this dom thing was niver before. 
As sure as I'm Pat, and stand here on two pins." 

Then he said with aliright, standing there on the sand: 
'T've seen fish that cud fly and burds that cud talk; 

But bad luck to the day whin I lift dear Old Ireland 
And came to the land where the shnuff boxes walk." 



CHRISTMAS GREETING. 

TO K. L. 

May heaven its choisest blessings spread 

Around your path today. 
And gently poured upon your head, 

Abide with you alway. 

May Christmas cheer abound with you, 
May you be blythe and jolly, 



So, hang aloft the mistletoe 

And deck your house with holly. 

And when beneath that mystic bough 
Shall come fair heedless misses, 

May gallant swains then capture them 
And smother them with kisses. 

For now's the season of good cheer. 

And Christmas comes but once a year. 



DOUBTFUL CHARLEY. 

TO C. W N. 

They call him doubtful Charley of the Annanias Club, 
And for tall and lofty lieing he surely is no dub, — 
For he'll lie about his fork, he will lie about his knife, 
He will lie about his babies, he will lie about his wife. 

He will lie about his lish-hooks, he will lie about his gun, 
He will lie about the rising and the setting of the sun, 
He will lie about the ladies that he danced with at the ball, 
He will lie (to tell the truth) 'bout most anything at all. 

He will lie about the minnows that are swimming in the 

brook. 
He will lie about the big lish that ne'er bit upon his hook, 
He will lie on all occasions, he will lie with wonderous zest, 
He will lie from force of habit when the truth would do 

the best. . 

One day he caught a minnow and he hooked it by the tail. 
And then he hiked himself to town and swore he'd caught 

a whale. 
For at tall and lofty lieing he surely is no dub. 
And they call him doubtful Charley of the Annanias Clul). 

87 



He will lie about his hat and the color of its straw, 

But of all things on this green earth he most loves his 

mother-in-law, 
And for the dear old lady full surely he would fight. 
He would rise to do her bidding in the middle of the night. 

One day he took a package that a poor old man had got, 
'Twas filled with fruit, ripe oranges I think as like as not, 
And then he emptied out the fruit, all clean and spank and 

spick. 
And he filled the old man's package with heavy, hard- 
burned brick. 

He placed some fruit upon the top, then tied the same with 

care. 
The old man took the package home and loudly he did 

swear. 
That the damn thing grew so heavy, but soon he found the 

brick. 
And he swore that he'd get even for this dirty, Irish trick. 

So that is why this song is writ 'bout Charley W n, he 

Is the onariest old liar that you'd ever wish to see, 

And for tall and lofty lieing he surely is no dub, 

For they call him doubtful Charley of the Annanias Club. 

So here's to Charley W n of the Annanias Club, 

And when he goes a fishing may some one steal his grub, 
And when he is not looking, just turn this little trick. 
And fill his empty haversack with dirty hard-burned brick. 



88 



TO AN IDEAL LADY. 

Oh lovely lady with thy bright blue eye, 
Thy radiant face and golden curling hair, 

Thy cheeks that with the rose and lily vie. 
Thy beauteous lips and pearly teeth so fair. 

Thou seem'st a creature less of earth than heaven, 
Like some sweet vision of a summer dream, 

And purer, fairer, brighter even 

Than morn's first blush or moonbeam's silvery gleam. 

Thy form so lovely, full of gentle grace, 

The earth seems hallowed where thy feet hath been ; 

Naught can surpass the beauties of thy face — 
To worship thee would scarcely seem a sin. 

Oh, had my lot on earth with thine been cast 
My cup of happiness would have run o'er! 

I'd brave the summer's heat, the winter's blast 
To add one jot of pleasure to thy store. 

If such, I say, had been my lot on earth, 

From thy sweet presence I'd ne'er wish to stray, 

But bless the hour that gave thee birth 
And strive to make thee happy as the day. 

Could I have clasped thee to my breast 

And felt thine heart beat in response to mine 

And felt upon my cheek thy perfumed breath 
I'd deem myself the happiest of mankind. 

The world's rude care thy joy should never mar. 
From every ill in life I'd strive to shield thee. 

True love should light us like a guiding star 

And each succeeding hour new pleasure yield thee. 

89 



Our lives united like some bright river, 

Formed by two crystal streams, should sweetly flow^ 
And through life's pleasant vales meander, 

Bring glad rejoicing wheresoe'er 'twould go. 

And when at last our lives on earth were ended, 
We'd meet again in God's high heaven above, 

Again together would our souls be blended 
And all eternitv an endless round of love. 



OCTOBER. 

(Oct. 1, 1905.) 

Let those who will, sing of the beauties of spring, 
Of the blossoms of May and the roses of June, 

But I tune my lyre to a different lay, 

And the song I now sing has a dift'ercnt tunc. 

Oh, give me the autumn when crisp is the air 

And the sunlight is strained thro a mantle of haze, 

\A hen the air is like nectar and filled with ozone 
And a warm mellow glow hlls all of the days. 

Now the goldenrod nods, and fit for the gods 

Is the crisp morning air full of life-giving balm; 

And the gossamer spreads its bright silver threads 
Over upland and lea, and a soft quiet calm 

Doth cover all nature from mountain to sea. 

The spring hath its beauties, the summer its heat, 

The winter its cold and its mantle of snow ; 
rUit the autumn is lovely, its glories resplendent, 

90 



And forest and meadow are lit by a glow 
Of scarlet and yellow and rich shades of brown. 

Oh, the months of the year, each one hath its charm, 
This laughing and bright, that modest and sober, 

Each one in its turn is a source of delight^ — ■ 

But the crown of the year is the month of October 



WELCOME DEATH. 

Death called on a youth one day in spring, 

But the victim exclaimed "Oh Death pass on ! 

Pray leave me awhile in joy to sing. 

For my wedding day comes e'er the week is done. 

I am young, I am rich, and life is sweet, 
Withhold then awhile thy dart. Oh Death, 

For my heart beats high and it is not meet 
That thou thus early should stay my breath. 

There are doubtless others that fain would greet 
A\'ith joy, thy coming. Oh Specter Grim, 

And lethe's dark waters to some would be sweet; 
Then hasten to such and solace him." 

Death turned aside and the youth did wed, 
But the bride that he loved in his early youth 

Forsook his board and forsook his bed, 

Proved false to her vows and false to truth. 

The years passed on and his riches fled, 

And gone are the friends of his childhood now, 

For those that he loved in his youth are dead, 
And white is his hair and furrowed his brow. 

91 



Till full of sorrow and of years, at length. 

At three score years and ten he lay, 
Shorn of his wealth, of his youth, and strength. 

In the room where once on his wedding day 

He had thought with joy of the coming years. 

But the dream he had dreamed of the future bright, 

Had ended for him in sorrow and tears. 
The morning gay in the blackest night. 

Again death called and a happy smile 
Played round the lips of the dying man, 

And they at his bedside listen the wdiile 

To catch his last words if perchance they can. 

In a whisper faint they did hear him say, 

E're his pulse was stayed and stilled his breath, 

"Life's bright dream is over, and ended the play. 
Welcome, thrice welcome art thou — Oh Death." 



POST MORTEM. 

When this tenement of clay shall lie tenantless and still 
And the soul that dwelt within it shall have fled. 

As ye gather round my bier I pray you shed no tear, 

For the weeping of the mourners is unheeded by the dead. 

And, I pray you, heap no mass of flowers above my head, 
Nor with fragrant blossoms pile my coffin lid. 

But a bunch of withered grass or some faded leaves instead. 
For tho' flowers deck a bridal they but mock the peaceful 
dead. 



92 



TO MY OLD FRIEND A. L. 

ON HEARING OF THE DEATH OF HIS WIFE. 

Let not thine heart be bowed with grief, 
Nor waste the hours with sad repining 

For, though the clouds are dark beneath. 
Above them all God's sun is shining. 

The form of her you loved on earth 
'Tis true hath vanished from thy sight ; 

Her soul in heaven hath had its birth 
Henceforth to dwell in endless light. 

A few short years and you, my friend, 
Shall join her there in heaven above. 

Eternity — it hath no end, 

And you shall know a perfect love. 

A love made free from earthly taint, 
A love as pure as angel's love. 

Like that exists twixt saint and saint. 
For God is there. And God is love. 




93 



JAN 2 1913 



